


The Last Time

by Madeleine_Ward



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blasphemy, Brooklyn Boys, Dirty Talk, Don’t copy to another site, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Smut, Teenage Bucky, Teenage Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madeleine_Ward/pseuds/Madeleine_Ward
Summary: ‘Friends’ don’t do what they do, especially not friends of the same sex. There are words for people like that, ugly words that feel jarring to hear and even worse to say...But when Bucky’s body is on top of his, when Bucky’s breath is warm against his neck and his teeth are scraping over that pulse point just below his ear?...It’s easy to forget that they aren’t allowed to want this.





	The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Последний раз](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514776) by [fandomStarbucks2019](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomStarbucks2019/pseuds/fandomStarbucks2019), [smokeymoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokeymoon/pseuds/smokeymoon)



> This story was written with a nod to my 15 year old self, who thought she shouldn’t want what she wanted either. It draws on some issues that might hit home for some people – please be aware of the trigger warnings in the tags. Accepting who you are is a journey, one that’s often difficult, but every trial we find ourselves in ultimately ends up being part of what shapes us. 
> 
> …And then when you’re all grown up you can use it to write angsty homoerotic smut, and discover that you maybe have a little kink for blasphemy. Who knew!? As always, so grateful to my beta for her encouragement and honest thoughts on this wine-fuelled, cathartic smut binge. She is the best of us xx

“This is the last time, Stevie, I’m serious…”

As serious as the last time he whispered it into the cramped space between them, and the time before that, and all the countless times before it…

As serious as hands up under each other’s shirts, lips on each other’s necks, hips grinding hard and wanting against each other in the forgiving darkness of Bucky’s bedroom…

As serious as the beating they’d both wear if anyone found out what their ‘friendship’ really was.

Steve knows that Bucky wants to mean it.  _He_  wants to mean it too, kicks himself for it every Sunday when Sarah Rogers drags his sorry ass to church, and he’s reminded all over again what awaits them if they don’t find a way to just fucking  _mean_  it.

Because ‘friends’ don’t do what they do, especially not friends of the same sex. There are words for people like that, ugly words that feel jarring to hear and even worse to say...

But when Bucky’s body is on top of his, when Bucky’s breath is warm against his neck and his teeth are scraping over that pulse point just below his ear?

...It’s easy to forget that they aren’t allowed to want this.

The aging bed frame groans under Bucky’s shifting weight as he presses up off of Steve to sit astride his thighs. His hands find their way to the hem of Steve’s shirt and pull it up, off his body, his eyes traversing the scant plane of Steve’s chest. There’s so little to see, skin stretched taut over sinew and bone, and yet under Bucky’s heated gaze, Steve feels like his body is worth the time it takes to look at.

Bucky moves cautiously, quietly as he strips off his own shirt and lays back down beside Steve, pulling him in close until they’re chest to chest, skin against skin. Foreheads pressed together, hands roaming over each other’s backs, ears attuned to the faintest suggestion of movement outside the door or on the other side of the wall. There would be no explaining this, two boys soundly in their teens cramped together on a single mattress, shirts discarded and limbs entwined. They can barely explain it to themselves, beyond the fact that it just feels inevitable that they’ll always fall back into each other like this.

“We can’t do this no more…” Bucky’s fingertips trace the ridge of Steve’s cheekbone, the line of his jaw. His thumb sweeps across Steve’s bottom lip, lingering there as if he can somehow store up that feeling, the softness of Steve’s mouth, keep it for all the nights to come when his resolve won’t break, when he’ll see Steve laying four feet away in a makeshift bed on the floor, and just let him stay there.

“I know,” Steve burrows in closer against the warmth of his body, hitches a leg up over Bucky’s hip, “after tonight…we’ll stop. This time we’ll stop.” 

Bucky nods, his hand drifting in lazy circuits up and down Steve’s back. Up, mapping the curve of his ribcage, the notches in his spine. Down, tracing the sharp ridge of a shoulder blade, the wiry muscles that are yet to fill out. Up, and down…and down. Over the jut of Steve’s hip, down Steve’s thigh where it rests on top of his own, fingertips digging in just a little. Steve shivers under his touch, leans into the caress of his hand.

“That feel good?” Bucky presses the question against the shell of Steve’s ear, and even if he couldn’t feel the quirk of Bucky’s lips against his skin, Steve can  _hear_  the smirk in those words, not really a question at all.  _That feels good_ , that smirk says, _I know how to play you._

“You know it does…” He noses his way up under Bucky’s jaw, taking the sensitive skin between his teeth – hard enough to feel the sting of it, soft enough to leave no trace, because  _he_  knows too. So very many countless, breathless moments between them, he can’t  _not_  know by now exactly what Bucky likes, what he wants from him in this exchange.

At least, he  _thinks_  so, until Bucky tightens his grip on Steve’s thigh and rolls them both, pinning Steve to the mattress with the weight of his body. The protesting bed springs almost mask the surprised gasp that catches in Steve’s throat as he stares up at his oldest friend, watching the impossible blue of Bucky’s eyes get slowly swallowed up, eclipsed by blown-black pupils. 

Bucky holds his weight up with one elbow planted next to Steve’s head, his other hand trailing trembling fingertips down Steve’s stomach. When he speaks, it’s not without a current of uncertainty fraying the edges of his voice.

“If this is really the last time…” he pauses when he reaches the waistband of Steve’s pants, his questioning gaze fixed on Steve’s face, “…I want to feel you. Just once.”

Steve’s veins course fire in place of blood as Bucky’s words hang between them, waiting in the space between  _we haven’t gone that far before_ and  _we aren’t supposed to want that_. It’s a fine line they’ve been dancing to this point, rules unspoken but nonetheless understood – pants stay on, hands stay above the waist, stop before it feels  _too_  good. Because if you come, then this is all real…then you’ve  _really_  broken the rules. 

He swallows hard. He’s gotten pretty damn good at convincing himself, against all logic, that what they’ve been doing is still within the realms of redeemable, that they can still come back from it. Steve can live with ‘redeemable’.

But  _this_ …

“Sounds an awful lot like sin, Buck…”

He hears how his voice quakes, desirous and needy in his own ears. He sees the irony in laying half-naked, half-hard under his best friend as he speaks of sin. But fear of damnation dies hard, and those church bells have a way of ringing in your ears long after the sermon is over and you’ve realized that ‘faithful obedience’ is just self-denial in its Sunday best.

Bucky worries his bottom lip between his teeth, a habit he’s never managed to kick. It’s not the same for him, Steve knows. Bucky could count on one hand the number of church services he’s sat through in his life, and wouldn’t even need one finger to count how many he’d actually paid attention to. But he knows the way that guilt gnaws at Steve, and he chooses his words carefully.

“Maybe...” he nods, measures his words, “…but maybe there are worse things than hellfire, Stevie. Like living our whole lives without ever getting to be us.”

The words sit too heavy, grip too tight to that place within Steve that just  _knows_ , has always known – who he is,  _what_  he is, what Bucky means to him when he strips away all the  _can’t_  and  _shouldn’t_. They’re not kids anymore, and this isn’t just play. Their touches carry intent, their kisses laced with purpose, and every moment they steal together is another link in the chain that will forever have them tethered, whether they can live that truth or not.

So when Bucky’s fingertips slip down the barest fraction of an inch, when he looks Steve square in the eye and whispers “I would burn for you, Steve…you gotta know that by now…” Steve’s got no fight left anymore.

If they’re damned for wanting it, they’ve been fucked for years.

He reaches down and laces their fingers together, holding Bucky’s gaze as he slowly pushes his hand down inside his pants and onto his cock.

“ _Fuck_ …” Bucky drops his head into the crook of Steve’s neck, his breath leaving in a surprised rush across Steve’s skin as he skims his hand down the length of him. He goes slow, his touch exploratory, feeling him out from the tip all the way down to his balls and back up again. He dusts kisses over Steve’s shoulder, up his neck, across his jaw, relishing the way he shivers under his touch, grows harder with every pass of his hand.

“You ever think about me when you touch yourself?”

The question catches Steve off guard, and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as his dick twitches in Bucky’s hand. It shouldn’t surprise him how ready his mouth is to run away from him, not when he’s felt every bit of the fight it’s taken to keep himself in check every time they’ve fooled around.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pyjama pants and works them down his thighs, out of the way, making room for Bucky to stroke at him in earnest.

“You have no idea, Buck…” He lets his eyes drift closed, tunes in to the sensations of Bucky’s touch, of Bucky’s own growing erection pressing hard up against his thigh. “God, the things I think about doing to you…you doing to  _me…_ ”

“Tell me,” Bucky sighs, “tell me all of it. Every filthy fucking thing you’ve ever thought of me.” 

The air between them is thick, their unsteady breaths and heated whispers the only sounds in the otherwise silent room.

“Now’s your chance, Stevie…” Bucky tightens his grip on Steve’s shaft, drags his fist slowly downwards, “… _confess.”_

Steve’s heartbeat trips over itself, the sheer blasphemy of the whole thing sending the most conflicting lick of heat up his spine. He stares down at Bucky’s hand, memorises the picture that this makes, that  _Bucky_ makes, hovering over him, getting him off, wholly lost to this moment they aren’t supposed to have, and  _yeah_ …

Steve would burn for this too.

“I’ve thought about  _this_ ,” he rolls his hips, pushing his cock up through Bucky’s grip, “about your hand on me, jerking me off.”

He digs his heel into the mattress, pushes his thigh up against Bucky’s crotch where he’s rocking slowly against him. “I think about taking all your clothes off…putting my mouth on you…”

“Where?”

“ _Every_ where,” he threads his hands through Bucky’s hair, tugs sharply at the strands as Bucky’s teeth rake across his collarbone, “wherever you fucking want it, Buck. I think about you begging for my lips wrapped around you…think about the sounds you’d make when I give it to you.”

Bucky gasps warm against his skin. He keeps up his slow, measured strokes of Steve’s dick, beads of precum slicking the passage of his hand, and he’s so hard against Steve’s thigh, rutting against him to the rhythm of his strokes. They both work to keep their breathing slow, controlled, quiet – the breath of those peacefully at rest in their own beds, not those engaging in the most exquisite sexual experience of their young lives.

Steve locks his fingers around the back of Bucky’s neck and tugs his face up, crashes their mouths together. He sweeps his tongue along Bucky’s bottom lip, strokes it into his mouth, caresses it against Bucky’s until his head is swimming and he’s got no filter left anymore, just the unhindered urge to  _talk._

“I’ve wondered what it’d be like to have you inside me, Buck.”

Bucky’s movement falters. He pulls back to seek out Steve’s gaze, eyes blown wide and wild and every bit of  _please fuck tell me more_. “You…what?”

Steve arches up to speak against his lips, to leave this most sordid confession right there on the alter of Bucky’s perfect mouth.

“I think about getting fucked by you.”

And when Bucky’s response is an actual fucking whimper right into Steve’s open mouth, Steve just wants to purge every raw, obscene fantasy he’s ever had of him _._  He tugs at Bucky’s pants, pushes them down until his rigid, leaking cock springs free and rubs against the bare skin of his thigh, and  _fuck_  if Steve can’t think of better places for it to rub up against.

He works his leg out from under Bucky and hooks it up around his back, drawing a soft moan as Bucky realizes what he’s angling for.

“How would you want it, Stevie?” He shifts himself into the widespread V of Steve’s open thighs, holding his weight up as best he can as he tilts his hips to line up their slick lengths. “You picture me fucking you like this?”

He gives a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, that first brush of skin on skin sparking galaxies behind Steve’s eyelids.

Bucky drops his head down, nuzzles lips to Steve’s ear. “You wanna be flat on your back…heels to Jesus…watching me move on top of you? That what you been dreamin’ of, Steve?” 

God, it’s so surreal, it’s so  _much_ …the weight of Bucky between his thighs; the warm, wet drag of flesh against flesh; the faint tremble in Bucky’s body as he moves above him. He can’t help the desperate cling of his hands at Bucky’s back, can’t help but sink his fingertips deep into those bunching, flexing muscles as Bucky finds a rhythm on top of him.

“I want it however you wanna give it to me, Buck…however you want me, just…” he digs his heel into Bucky’s ass, urging him closer, harder against him, “…just wanna see you lose it… _fuck,_  I bet you’re pretty when you come…”

Bucky cusses under his breath, his thighs beginning to shake as he fights to hold back, hold it together.

“ _Christ_ you got a mouth on you, Rogers…” His breaths are coming fast and shallow; he’s flushed from cheeks to chest, kiss-plump lips parted and hair a mess from Steve’s desperate hands running through it, and Steve wants that image seared into his brain for the rest of his goddamn life.

“I know…” He hitches his other leg up, locks his ankles together at the small of Bucky’s back, “…so you gonna come on me or what?”

Bucky bites back a groan, the roll of his hips losing all semblance of rhythm, of control. The mattress creaks faintly under the surge of his body, and Steve couldn’t find the will to care about that right now if he tried, not when Bucky is so close, so  _fucking_  close. He rocks up to meet the erratic thrust of Bucky’s hips, grips tight to Bucky's biceps as he sighs a needy, strung out plea.

“Do it Buck…come on me…please,  _fuck,_  come on me…”

And just like that, just like so many of Steve’s unholy fantasies, Bucky is burying a wrecked moan in the crook of his neck as he loses it, spilling hot over Steve’s cock, his stomach, up his chest. He’s shaking all over; low, breathy sounds catching in the back of his throat as the tremors of orgasm roll through him, and it’s the absolute rawness, the sheer  _abandon_  of it all that brings Steve to the edge…

But the desperate, broken  _God, I love you_  that Bucky mouths, barely audible, right over Steve’s frantically thudding heart?

That’s what tips him over.

Bucky kisses him through it, rocks his hips as much as his spent, oversensitive cock can bear until the last of Steve’s climax is through, and he goes boneless beneath him.

Silence crushes in around them as the haze of want clears, and they’re left with only the reality of what they’ve done, both suddenly too aware of the way their every labored breath punctuates the quiet. Bucky shifts carefully off of him, uses his discarded shirt to clean them as best he can before stretching himself out alongside Steve. Steve, who instinctively curls around him, hand on his heart like he knows it’s always been his to hold. Neither of them speak, the both of them waiting for the inevitable creak of feet on the landing or hand on the doorknob.

But it doesn’t come.

It doesn’t come, and Steve doesn’t know why he wishes that it would. As if that would be easier, somehow – Winifred Barnes storming in and ripping Steve away from her sons grasp, telling him never to darken their doorway with his depraved, perverse self ever again.

Easier than the alternative they now find themselves facing, of somehow finding the strength to not be  _this_ anymore, of their own sheer will. 

Bucky’s decelerating pulse flickers under the pads of Steve’s fingers, the chill night air seeping in to bite at their exposed skin. Steve knows he needs to cover up before the cold makes a home in his chest, knows he needs to release his grip on this, on Bucky. Because they’d agreed, because he’d  _promised_ , this was it. They would allow themselves this, and then they would let each other go. He would make himself let Bucky go.

“You know how I feel about you…”

He means it as a question, but it doesn’t come out that way. Not that it matters, because Bucky is nodding, is tightening his grip on him just a little where he lays safe in the circle of his arms.

He tilts his face up to catch Bucky’s lips, because there’s nothing else to be said. Nothing, at least, that won’t break them both. He lets his gaze wash once more over Bucky’s face, looks at him the way he won’t let himself anymore once the sun comes up, the way that always makes Bucky shove at him and call him a sap even as the corners of his mouth turn upwards.

He tries, and fails, not to notice the tear that slips from the corner of Bucky’s eye as he untangles himself from his arms and sits up, slips his shirt back on.

He pretends he’s only cold on the outside as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and leaves the warmth of Bucky’s bed.

For the last time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...Ending it this way was hard for me too. Forgive me! If you need perking up, go read 'Show Me' - I promise it ends sunnier than this!


End file.
